Well, I’ll just cheat. Why not? I was thinking about those of you for whom the mediaeval period is nothing more than a time in history that you don’t give much thought to. If this is your take on it, you probably won’t know what a Reeve is. I thought about defining this rôle myself and then realised that A.I. could probably do a better job.
This is what ChatGPT says about “the reeve”:
”In medieval times, a reeve was an important official responsible for managing the affairs of a manor or estate on behalf of the lord. The duties of a medieval reeve were varied but typically included overseeing agricultural activities, collecting rents and dues, maintaining order, and ensuring that the lord's interests were protected. The reeve often had to make decisions about resource allocation, resolve disputes among villagers, and manage the day-to-day operations of the manor.”
There’s more, of course, but I didn’t want to fill up today’s piece with the widdlings of artificial intelligence. Nonetheless, it’s important to note that A.I. forgot to mention the relevance of the reeve to today’s society. Yes, that’s right, we still have them, though the job title has been subsumed into another. But artificial intelligence didn’t notice that. In its defence, it’s still little more than an idiot child and has yet to attempt dominion over us..
In the 14th century in England, very often a county would appoint its own reeve. Most counties were called “shires”, such as Lancashire or Berkshire. (Note to non-Brits. The “shire” part is pronounced “sheer” when used as the suffix of the county name.) This meant that the county’s reeve was often referred to as the “shire reeve”. And that, as I’m sure you’ve already divined, has transformed into “sheriff”. So John Wayne was often playing the part of the reeve! Perhaps I could create one that is Wayne-esque in a future strip?
Anyway, here’s Merrie England again and as usual, the last strip is the latest.
The Grubby Minds of Teenage Boys
When I was a teenager in North Finchley, London, I went to school three miles from the family home in Barnet. We had moved from Wood Green, which was a little nearer to central London, not far from Tottenham.
My parents moved to the area at Christmas time and because of that, it proved impossible to get me into a school within walking distance. The timing was all wrong, you see.
So I was dropped into a school in Barnet, a three-mile bus ride away. It wasn’t a great school and certainly not one devoted to high academic acheivement. Well, if it was, I didn’t notice. All the lads I knew seemed to be there for a bit of a jolly until they could get out and earn enough money to buy beer and cigarettes.
My parents had brought me up to be socially polite, never vulgar and somewhat prudish in the matter of the private workings of the human body. I’m sure I wasn’t alone in that, of course but what stood out for me, on arrival, was the earthy nature of some of the boys. And quite rapidly, many such boys became my friends. As usual, the bad boys were a lot more fun than the good ones! There’s some quotation about “heaven for the climate and hell for the company”, isn’t there? It was very far from hell but the minds of teenage boys drift entirely toward those areas below the belt buckle, if you catch my drift. Low enough without entering the underworld..
Farting was a form of entertainment. And special words had been coined for this; words I had never heard at home, where such releases were known, rather primly, as “trumps” or “promises” of something yet to come.
At school, there were special words for noisy farts and for silent ones. Those which were audible were called “grunts”. Those which were more insidious were “guffs”. Picture the scene where a group of boys is in a confined area and one of them wrinkles his nose and demands, “Who’s guffed?” And of course, nobody admits to it. This would lead to cries of “The one who smelt it dealt it!” and the riposte, “the one who denied it supplied it!”
These scenes became rituals in a lazy, casual and good-humoured kind of a way, being repeated at intervals throughout the day. Probably a bit more after lunch, especially if cabbage had been served. (Lunch was always served by dinner ladies and not lunch ladies, but more of that another day.) I’m quite sure that humour deriving from “trouser crime” is pretty standard the world over amongst thirteen-year-old boys.
Naughty and rude as this may seem, there was worse. Some of these boys would stop at nothing, it seemed, to outdo each other in grossly revolting acts. One or two such behaviours I really feel I ought to keep silent about; after all, these are my schoolfriends I’m talking about and I still know several of them!
All of which leads me to “the flob”. This has to do with spitting, something that was only done outdoors. It was like a sport. Spitting is pretty foul, isn’t it? Just imagine, though, that you’re thirteen, you’re a boy out with his mates, you’re getting over a bad cold and precisely because of that, you decide to spit. Because this is optimum “flob” time, since what you eject is likely to have the consistency of beaten egg. Its arc through the air, once spat, is less like a liquid and more like an almost solid projectile. Probably somewhere in between, like a wet sock or a discarded spoonful of rice pudding. The “flob” isn’t like spit, really. Spit is only thickish water but a really good “flob” has proper sticking power. Contests could be held to find who could “flob” the furthest or perhaps the highest, but only if a suitable wall, greenhouse or well-glazed shop front was nearby to show the heights acheived. But distance and height took second place behind the graceful arc of the “flob”, the spitter employing rounded cheeks and lips held in an almost palsied state to add apparent insouciance to the display. You’re doing it like it doesn’t matter when in truth, at that moment, it means a great deal. Reputation is all for a teenage boy. And the “splat” is satisfying.
Normal spitting had different techniques, too. The “archer fish” version is probably the most admirable. The saliva is held tightly compressed behind the teeth and lips and then, after a target has been sighted, the tongue pushes hard and the lips contract to an embouchure, a la Dizzy Gillespie, and the spit, forced out under such pressure, spears out towards the spitter’s intended target. Such targets might be passing cats, milk bottles on doorsteps, public notices on lamp posts, in fact, anything that isn’t going to spit back or take revenge. This last is important, as you don’t want to “archer fish” your mates, for fear of severe and condign retribution.
Then there was “breath spitting”, which entails the use of a substantial but short, sharp burst of breath. The matter to be spat is held in balance at the very edge of the bottom lip. As the spitter draws in his breath, the spit is made almost to teeter on the lip, the point at which drooling might commence if no breath should arrive. The contracting of the bottom lip and the sharp blast of breath are then brought into play simultaneously, rather like the Venturi effect used in jet engines, and the ball of saliva is hurled forth with great vigour. This method will often provide the most prodigious distance and will be used in almost all spitting competitions in the same way that the crawl, or freestyle, would be the stroke of choice in swimming races. The “flob” would lose against the “breath spit” every time.
Last of all comes the “tooth splitter”. This can only be done if you have a gap in your front teeth. No breath is required with this method, since all you do is press the tongue against the tooth gap whilst holding a small charge of liquid inside against the gum above. You then manipulate the tongue so that a jet can be squirted straight through the gap in the teeth. You’ll see this all the time in swimming pools. You’ve probably done it yourself..
Actually, now I think of it, I’ve seen all these techniques used in swimming pools. And that includes the grunts and guffs, as well!
Now, as usual, here’s a link to one of my cartoon drawing videos. I do hope you enjoy it!
Spike Milligan lived in Finchley Central, Peter Sellers, I think, lived in East Finchley and I lived in North Finchley. If you look on Google Maps and type in 25 Grove Road, Finchley N12, you'll be outside the house I lived in as a teenager! Before that, we lived in Wood Green. 136 Moselle Avenue, in fact.
"When I was a teenager in North Finchley," -- Oo er, were you mates with Bluebottle?